Breaking Pointe
by EvieGleek17
Summary: Only 1 in a 1,000,000 can even dare to hope to succeed in the cutthroat world of the creative arts; and most of these will have their dreams dashed. You may think you have what it takes, the talent and the tenacity but the harsh reality is that you probably don't. A whole new set of dancers invade The National Academy of Dance and old favorites find their place in this world.
1. Prologue - Having What It Takes

**Hey, I have recently discovered Dance Academy and I am obsessed. So it got my creative juices flowing and then BOOM this come to my head from nowhere and I had to write. This is a short introduction, and a project I can devote some time to and hopefully give a realistic edge to since I have a bit of experience in dance.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Dance Academy or the characters you recognise. The OC's and the plot though are all mine.**

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_**So You Think You've Got What It Takes?**_

_**Georgette Evans**_

_Dance. Drama. Music. The industry of creative arts in its entirety is painted to be the most illustrious industry; the pinnacle of human culture with all the glitz and glamour that one could imagine. The fame, the fortunes draw everyone in at some point; they all want to be the next 'big' thing. _

_The may want to be the next Prima Ballerina in the National Ballet. Or they could envision themselves as a modern day Beethoven whose compositions earn immortal credit. Maybe they long to become the greatest actor of their generation, to have Oscars littering their mantelpieces like fish in the ocean._

_These are not irrational dreams. It is human nature to want to be the best, to have that moment of recognition for their 'art'. The irrational aspect of this whole scenario: those who 'support' them, telling them that they can achieve the impossible and become the reincarnation of Fred Astaire. Encouraging delusion and allowing delusions of grandeur to manifest like a foul fungus. _

_The world would be a happier place; a more practical place if people could open their eyes to the fact that there is 1 in a million who can use their talent to become the next phenomenon in their art. If people were not so inappropriately obsessed with trying to transform their dreams in to a reality and face the simple fact that they are not, and most likely never will be, good enough then they could devote their time to things in which they may actually succeed._

_Only the very best can dare to hope to do anything with their talents; and even then most people will have their dreams dashed. That is the harsh and entirely unforgiving reality of a career in the performing arts. If you believe grim determination will ever be able to compete with natural talent, or if you're naïve enough to have faith in what the media tells you about this world : 'Passion is all you need to succeed' or 'Playing nice will help you get to the top' then you are severely misguided. _

_So before you even dream about trying to get a recording contract or dance the principle part on a National stage; I suggest you look in a mirror and think honestly: Are you really cut out for the cutthroat world of creative arts?_

_As always, I am Georgette Evans and I am signing you this reality cheque._

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**A short prologue, we'll eventually meet Georgette and a few other OC's who will be the students of this story; I will probably play around with the canon since I didn't want Sammy to die and since I can play around with this then he will definitely be appearing along with our cast favourites throughout the story.**

**Let me know your thoughts and if you'd like to see some more.**

**-Evie xox**


	2. A Teacher's Job

_**So I am back. I didn't have any reviews for the last chapter but it was extremely short, more of a prologue. This chapter is a bit meatier, so reviews would be appreciated; I have developed 3 first year OC's to use but I would also appreciate having some of the readers submit characters (if you're interested leave a review and I'll PM you) although I do reserve the right to tweak your characters to suit my plot lines etc.**_

_**This chapter is from the perspective of Miss Raine and is to give you some insight into the current state of the Academy. Another thing is, I think I should reassure you that the cast members of the show will be a MAJOR part of the story; they will have their own plots as well as interactions with the Academy.**_

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**Miss Raine.**

Throughout my career I have been lucky to have performed alongside some of the greatest dancers to have graced the stage in the last century. But this pales in comparison to my years at the Academy, the greatest feeling is seeing how my teaching has helped the new generation of performers wade the tumultuous waters of dance. I have been blessed with my position within the National Academy of Dance, privileged to see dancers evolve in both their technique and their artistry; watching as children become adults, and understand themselves as both people and performers.

But, as always there are downfalls to holding such a position: I am the woman responsible for crushing so many dreams by not granting admission to hordes of those who have auditioned to study in the prestigious conservatoire. I am one of the people responsible for spotting 'star quality', and one mistake on our behalf could potentially cost the dancing world the next Nina Ananiashvili. There is no formula for finding the perfect candidate, there are no guarantees; finding the balance between natural talent and the mind-set to succeed. Identifying if a particular individual is a risk that is worth taking, if they could be the one in a million who could become a dancing pioneer; analysing if the candidate has the mental strength to exist in the competitive world here at the Academy.

I have seen former students enter every career in the dance world: Performers, choreographers, dance journalists and so on. Thinking of those like Tara Webster and Abigail Armstrong, alumni who were gifted dancers from the get go and have not disappointed as they've become forces to be reckoned with throughout the world; this reinforces my beliefs that we should focus on the technical proficiency and natural ability in candidates. Yet on the other hand I have seen Sammy Lieberman, Katrina Karamakov and Christian Reed achieve incredible success despite being a little rough around the edges at first; these are the individuals who encourage the admission committee to take risks, for the Academy's faculty to take that extra time to figuratively polish these diamonds in the rough.

I push my chair back from my desk and begin to rub my temples; attempting, most likely in vain, to stave off the awful migraine I feel about to make itself known. Never have I been so unsure about myself, Lucy Raine has always been decisive; I have always known talent when I've seen it. I have always had a sixth sense for knowing the potential of those who dance for me, but now that is not enough. Despite our affiliations with the Royal Ballet, the Academy isn't only responsible for creating an army of balletic sycophants; we have to prepare them for a career in a world that is ever changing and equip them with the skills necessary to survive.

It pains me to say this, but Ballet is not the only path these performers will take; hence the Board of Governors recent decision to re-incorporate other dance styles into the curriculum. It is now our primary objective to create versatile dancers; learned in jazz, contemporary, hip hop and so many other styles. But to choose simply the dancers with most potential in any of these styles wouldn't suffice; this year's intake will be those who will compete to represent Australia in the Prix de Fonteyn, and not only as a member of the admissions committee but as Principal I have to ensure that those we put forward are able to represent the Academy on an International scale.

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I'm re-watching an audition video for what could be the fortieth time as a silver haired girl performs a deboulé chainé, flowing through the sequence with effortless grace and pristine technique; an undeniable natural talent yet the look of disinterest on her face makes me reluctant to offer her a place for final auditions. If I did, I know for a fact that Sir Geoffrey would want her admitted; her willowy physique and blatant talent could potentially make for an amazing addition to the Royal Ballet but how would her seemingly detached attitude affect the other students. I have been pondering such decisions for what seems to have been forever. Thankfully, I am distracted from my musings by a knock at my office door.

"Come in." I stand up and brush down my skirt; it is more than likely Sir Geoffrey or his robotic assistant Rebecca here to give their two cents in the admission process. I lift my chin in defiance, ready to argue my case for yet another time and literally sag in relief when I see Zach come through the door. Despite the pride I hold in being able to conceal my emotions, due to our prolonged acquaintance Zach has become more than apt at seeing through any façade I am able to fashion.

"Well somebody looks stressed" Zach falls into the chair the opposite side of my mahogany desk, reaching out to leaf through the colossal pile of candidate profiles. I would roll my eyes at the way he has strolled into my office and begun to rifle through my papers, but due to our tenure as colleagues we have fallen into the habit of becoming a lot more informal around one another; whenever we are not in the presence of students of course and over time I have come to respect his opinion. But not even that will make me dignify his juvenile jibe with a response.

"Although it is a pleasure to have you here in my office, I thought you would be overseeing the rehearsals for Coppellia." I have been trying to avoid even thinking about the end of year production where our current students would be attempting to perform Saint-Leon's comic ballet; it is yet another thing which contributes to my inappropriately high stress level. Zach just stares at me blankly; I raise one perfectly shaped eyebrow in response, it may be difficult working with the students but there is no justification for leaving them to rehearse without adult supervision.

"Lucy, do you even know what time it is? Rehearsal finished about 2 hours ago." I would stare in disbelief if I had the pleasure of spare time; instead I spare a glance at the clock on my wall surrounded by various accolades from my own performing career. 12.30; Zach is indeed right, rehearsals would of ended and students would now be attending core academic classes. I just sigh and pick up yet another application, reading through and finding the corresponding video on my laptop.

"I'm sorry, I've just been so busy; we have internal assessments this week, I've got to find new teaching staff for the classes our wonderful board of governors have decided to re-introduce into our curriculum after shooting the idea down 4 years ago. And then to top it all off, I have to send out the invitations for final auditions by the end of today." I feel bad that my tone comes across as sharp, but the stress has seriously been piling up and there is no way I could've prevented sarcasm seeping through into my words. I have no time to do anything other than try to fulfil my duties here at the Academy, and there isn't enough time in the day to do even that; but I shouldn't be taking this out on a colleague. I open my mouth to apologise but Zach is quick to cut me off by raising his hand.

"No need to apologise, I know that you've got a lot on your plate. We all have, but you need to take a deep breath and just do it. And, I am here to help; we can have this done in about 2 hours. How many are you looking for?" I reach across to put my hand on Zach's arm, retracting it almost instantly when I realise that this gesture could be misinterpreted. Zach is, and always will be, a good man; he motivates the students and is always considerate. This attitude also extends to the staff, but I just shake my head.

"If it was only so simple Zach, but this year we need to excel. We have to ensure that this year's intake is the strongest we've had since the graduating class of 2013; not only is it the Prix next year but we have to ensure that these recently 're-structured' changes to the curriculum are successful. These last two years, the students have been yielding less than satisfactory results across the board and people have noticed. We need another intake with stars Zach; we cannot allow the reputation of this institution to be compromised. As principal of the Academy, I refuse to let us be anything but the best."

I wouldn't be surprised if Zach fled from my office declaring me a mad woman, but instead his brown eyes widen with understanding; he has seen it. Since the graduates of 2013 left the Academy, something has been missing. I can't exactly put my finger on it, but other institutions have deemed it acceptable to label the National Dance Academy as 'losing its spark'; and unfortunately this is reflected in the number of applications. Although there are still masses of applicants to screen, it is no secret that the numbers have been falling dramatically over the last 2 years.

"They were a once in a lifetime class. We can't replicate it exactly, but we can try." I could cry with happiness at the conviction in Zach's voice, he knows that this year more than ever we need a class full of stars; those who will go on to dance lead, choreograph for the most prolific companies or even turn their talent to nurturing a whole new generation of dancers. I simply split the pile of applications in half and hand one over to Zach, he sits up straight as he begins the arduous process of reading through the apparently endless piles of paper; I stand prepare a cup of coffee to his liking, black with two sweeteners, and one for myself. Whispering an almost silent 'thank you' at the figure now hunched over my desk, a pen poised in his hand.

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Approximately three hours, fours cups of coffee and two minor outbursts later; the final selections have been made. I could cry in relief as I look down at the two piles of addressed letters before me. One pile will signify the end of a person's dream for coming to the Academy, whereas the other pile represents the first of many steps to becoming a renowned figure in the dance world and it may be my sole relief at having completed the daunting task but I think that we've done it. We've potentially found a group of students that could show everyone that the National Dance Academy is still responsible for training the finest dancers in Australia.

"I thought you'd copped out when you became principal, but this makes teaching look like a walk in the park." I can't help but smile, it's true; however frustrated I may have been at my students in the past. That frustration is nothing in comparison to drowning in paperwork and dealing with everything thrown at me by the Board of Governors, parents and The Royal Ballet on an almost daily basis.

"Well I'm glad you're now aware of how much work I actually have to do. Now, I can relax; well, relax as much as this job allows. Once I've had these posted I am disconnecting my phone and doing nothing else until later this evening when I will be pouring myself a large glass of red wine." My tinkling laughter joins Zach's baritone chuckle; we both know that is a lie; I would never shirk my responsibilities within the Academy, however favourable it may sound in this instant. But I am more than looking forward to unwinding with a glass of Merlot.

"Doubtful, you've still got to interview a few people for the open teaching positions." And with that small but entirely accurate observation, my positive attitude is popped like a balloon. I just close my eyes and rest my head in my hands, for the last few years I've found myself questioning a lot of things: Will the momentous list of 'things-to-do' ever end? Why did I take this position? I can't count the amount I've times I've found myself sitting at this desk but fantasising about being back in the studio. Being the teacher I always knew I could be, rather than the principal whom is questioning herself at every opportunity.

For someone who calls herself efficient, I am bewildered as to how I could have forgotten something so important. I feel Zach place his hand on my shoulder and I'm pretty sure he whispers something which is meant to be encouraging; but that isn't something I have the time for. I push myself back up and smooth my hair back into its tight bun, ensuring that no tendrils of my mahogany locks are hanging loose. As always I must be the consummate professional, pulling another pile of papers toward myself; this time scouring through potential teachers rather than student.

I hardly notice that Zach's hand is still resting on my back, and I pointedly ignore the sigh as he walks around to the other side of the table while I immerse myself in the credentials of people from all across the world. We sit in silence for a few minutes until my phone starts ringing; knowing that it will be nothing more than something else I need to do, I am sorely tempted to ignore it. But it seems I don't have that choice as Zach makes the executive decision to answer my telephone.

If I didn't have years of self-discipline on my side I am sure that my jaw would be hanging somewhere near the floor; but even I can't prevent my eyebrows from taking a vacation in my hair line. Although Zach is someone I consider a friend, I would never think it appropriate to answer my personal line. He obviously doesn't view it as a faux pas since he is mindlessly chattering to the receptionist; I don't know how long I sit there staring at his audacity. I can't even find words when he puts the phone down and smiles at me.

"Well, it seems I may have saved you a lot of stress. I think I may have found someone who will be up to teaching the alternative style classes and they're in reception. You can thank me later." Speechless, he saunters from the room and it is a few seconds before it all to sink in. Once I realise that I am expected to conduct an interview in a matter of minutes I am a ball of anxiety: I don't have any resources or questions prepared. I don't know if I have their resume at hand or if I could put them in a teaching scenario while the students are in their academic study periods. Right now my heart is racing and I can think of a few words I would like to say that are most definitely not ladylike.

I'm counting down the seconds until I hear the knock on the door, and there it is. My mouth is dry, I'm not prepared and with the reputation of the Academy being 'questionable' at the moment this is not going to be doing us any favours; I call out a quick come in. The person strolls into the office and looks around; I am definitely shocked to see this former student applying for a teaching position but I am no longer nervous. In fact, the way in which they're looking at the floor with their hands in their pockets makes me realise that they're the nervous one in this situation. The shock prevents me from speaking until my former student looks up, a queasy smile painted onto their face.

"Long time, no see Miss Raine."

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_**And there you go.**_

_**Who do you think the former student who is trying to be a teacher should be?**_

_**Are you interested in creating a few characters for me?**_

_**Now, next would you like to see where our alumni are now that they're out of school? Or the potential students responses to getting a final audition?**_

_**I am very aware that this chapter was very 'internal', with very little physical description/interaction. This isn't how the whole story would be… Although I will use a first person perspective quite often; it won't always be so thorough.**_

_**Reviews greatly appreciated… Please ;) Or any questions.**_

_**-Evie xx**_


	3. After the Academy

**Hey, I am so thankful to have received such positive reviews and character submissions. It inspired me to hit the laptop and so here it is the product of your amazing reviews.**

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**Tara Webster.**

For as long as I can remember, this is a moment that I've yearned for. Standing on a proscenium arch stage, bathed in a single spotlight and only moments away from dancing principal for an International Ballet Company; it seems as though I've been waiting forever, but now that moment has come. Every single second spent rehearsing tirelessly in the studio, every tear I have cried, every ounce of sweat and every drop of blood shed has led to this moment. Every laugh, every fear and all the drama has culminated in this: The moment when my childhood dream becomes a reality.

The stage lights are glaringly bright, I can't see the audience but from the thrum of the electric atmosphere I know they're there. And then it comes, the lilting melody of the flute and then the staccato on the violin. One deep breath and I am engulfed by that feeling, a feeling I've known for so long: The feeling when I dance. Engulfed by serenity, Tara and all the dramas of her day to day life are gone; before the audience stands Giselle. The poor peasant girl, who loves so earnestly that she, is destined to die of a broken heart.

As Adolphe Adams' score reaches its crescendo, my body responds; grande ronde de jambe en l'air, arabesque, piqué turns en manège. Flowing through movements with a grace that surprises me, it feels natural as my arms flow through a series of positions as easily as breathing. As my développé is held higher than ever before, flowing through the cou-de-pied, retiré, and attitude positions sinuously. It still astounds me how far I have come in so little time; it may have been 5 years but it feels like yesterday when I was the small town girl dancing through cornfields, and every day I remind myself how lucky I am to be me. To live this life that so many other young women would sell their soul for.

That is what motivates me, but nowadays I find myself wondering where the clueless 15 year old version of me has gone? Has the girl who believed in ridiculous notions such as 'internal GPS' taken up permanent residence in memories? For now when the nerves threaten to overwhelm me, it isn't a field in harvest that soothes me or the scent of pine but words spoken by one of the most important people to me. Words which all my friends and I have taken to heart, which inspire us every day 'Every dancer knows that being technically perfect isn't good enough. We need to know why we dance. For me, it's to be connected. I'm inspired by my friends'.

As I dance, I know what this means. I am connected to every member of the audience, inspired by everyone who has helped me on my journey to this moment. I am connected to Giselle and her pure love for Duke Albrecht who masquerades as Loys; I know her pain as her mother forbids her from dancing. This isn't about perfection, it is me telling the story through dance; taking them on the journey of a girl who defends her love, even in death.

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Adrenaline surges through my veins and time blurs as we progress through the tale of 'Giselle', we dance in perfect unison. Every step, every turn pre-meditated as we move around the stage in perfect synchronization; working as a well-oiled machine. Every component is responsible for another's success, every little nuance is planes for months in advance; this isn't a school for dancer's where mistakes are to be made. This is the National Ballet, the home of perfection; or as perfect as humanity can be. A place where flawless technique cannot be taught, but is expected.

But we as dancers are not expected to have expectations of our own: We are part of an acclaimed company. Blessed with being here; for I never had any expectations of surpassing my role in the core de ballet. Even when I signed the contract in my final days at the Academy, I believed I would forever be 'peasant' or 'townsperson'. As the final notes float from the orchestral pit and I raise my right leg into grande arabesque, I can't help but think 'Thank You' to whoever has been smiling down on me for so long.

The audience practically explode, applause ringing through the Sydney Opera House so loudly that it could perforate my ear drums. A smile takes residence on my face as I hear the dulcet tones of Kat in the audience, chanting my name. Throughout the crowds I hear shouts of 'Tara' and goosebumps erupt all over my body. I bow, almost in tears as my heart soars; this feeling, of importance as though I'm being seen in perfect clarity along a hazy landscape is like nothing that can be transposed into mere words. A feeling I sincerely doubt I will ever fell again, but something that makes it all worth it. Something I will never forget.

And now for the encore.

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Finally I escape to my dressing room; after the show I was hounded by Sir Geoffrey and although his praise is important, I just need a minute to myself. Thanks to the Ballet Gods for the perks of playing a principal, having a private changing room: A safe haven of sorts, somewhere I can go to absorb the fact that I have just achieved a lifelong ambition of dancing in front of a full theatre.

"This can't be real" I stare into the mirror, daring it to contradict me. To laugh and declare that this is all a grand hallucination and that I'll wake up tomorrow, an overworked and underpaid dancer who is destined to be the consummate 'supporting act' while everyone around me receives recognition for what they do. Unsurprisingly, the mirror remains silent; but that doesn't stop me from pinching myself to ensure that this is reality.

You know how it is when something is too good to be real, even the bouquets of flowers are something which I could mistake for a mirage; even with the velvety texture as I trace my fingers along the delicate petals and the pleasant aroma. I smile at a bunch of white tulips with a note from Ollie affixed; wishing me luck. The gesture always sets me off on another round of tears; I'm far too emotional at the moment. I take a wet wipe and begin to wipe away the cosmetically enhanced porcelain complexion of Giselle's, the smoky eyes and cherry red lips; and then everything is back to normal.

Tara Webster, with my almond shaped hazel eyes and chocolate brown hair. My thin, pink lips; I seem so nondescript un-extraordinary. The same as I did this morning, which I suppose, is to be expected. But I just expected something to be different, I have danced a principal role and I feel as though there should be some physical representation of this momentous occasion; such as sharper planes to my cheekbones or maybe a certain glimmer to my eyes.

CRASH! Any ordinary person would have screamed, or jumped or showed some form of response; but I'm used to it. Unlike my colleagues in the company who are shouting out admonishments. My door is flung open and the next thing I know I'm hit by a cannonball. A 5'8'' blonde canon that goes by the name of Katrina Karamakov; even if the way she is currently hugging me so tightly I can't breathe might be seen as assault, I take it as affection. She has been my best friend for five years after all.

"You were amazing. Like, I even stayed away with all the prancing and the preening and the classical music. Not once did I want to tweet about how I wanted to blow my brains out." As bubbly as ever, Kat is rambling on about how I am 'revolutionising ballet' and even if it is grossly exaggerated. The fact she stayed awake for both acts and hasn't complained about exactly how many seconds she's spent wilting away in a 'hotpot of elitist snobbery and middle aged madness' means a lot more to me than anything else.

I return her hug whole heartedly, holding her as tightly as possible and inhaling the passion fruit scent of her favourite shampoo. I feel like I'm about to cry and when Kat pulls back I can see tears glistening in her eyes too; every time we reach a particular 'milestone' this happens. It never gets less painful, but it gets easier to deal with: Imagining how Sammy would react if he were here to witness this. It's been four years, but every day I imagine what he'd be doing if. Well, if nothing ever happened.

"You were good Tara, but not good enough to warrant one of your famous meltdowns." Hearing that particular voice was enough to snap me out of my melancholic reverie; Katrina too by the way she snaps around to see who is standing in the doorway. And I've known her long enough to know that her jaw would be hanging wide open.

"Kat, are you trying to catch flies?" As always the tone of Abigail Armstrong's voice has a distinctly sarcastic undertone; but judging by the twinkle in her brown eyes and the quirk to her lips, I don't take her jibes to heart. Somehow we became friends, after all the rivalry drama and the downright bitchiness; I got to know the Abigail I know today. Someone who deserves to be loved, and cue squealing girl drama as me and Kat both launch ourselves at one of our oldest friends.

"Abigail, it's wonderful to see you. How've you been? I've missed you…" "I thought you were macking on my brother, how was Mia Michaels? Did they pay you enough to subdue your ego?" Abigail pushes us both away and hugs us separately. Nudging Kat with her elbow and rolling her eyes when Kat stuck her tongue out like a petulant child; she waltzed past us and sat down in my chair, deliberately putting her feet up and leaning back.

"Well, I heard on the grapevine. Namely your bi-weekly e-mails Tara that you were understudying for Saskia, and then about 2 weeks ago I got about a million voicemails from Kat about how Saskia had broken her ankle yet again. Surprises me she ever made principal since she so blatantly has weak ankles, but yeah. Decided I'd pop by and see if you'd gotten any better. You have by the way." Kat mimes fainting at Abigail's backhanded compliment, which is as much as I'd ever get from the seemingly hard-hearted girl. I would've laughed at the not so subtle shade she threw at my former 'nemesis' but I'm just shocked she's physically here and it is a few moments before I seem to reattach my brain to my vocal chords.

"But Abigail, you are supposed to be in America; working for Mia Michaels. You can't have blown an opportunity to work with such an acclaimed choreographer to come and see me. But thank you." Abigail had become a lot more humble since our days in the Academy, but to something so selfless just to support me and put her own career on hold. It's so unexpected; Abigail holds her hand up to cut me off and begins to laugh. I look at Katrina to see that she's laughing too, and once again Tara Webster is out of the loop.

"Hold your horses farm girl, although I'm glad I came to see that the National Ballet still has some talent. If it would've interfered with my job, you should know that I wouldn't of been here opening night; Mia is taking one of her sabbaticals when she disappears for about 5 months and so we've been 'set free' although it is nice to be home." Oh, so I was over exaggerating things in my head. Some things would never change, such as Abigail's tenacity when it came to her career in dance.

"Yup Abigail, I think Tara almost mistook your actions as being nice. What a fool. But the big questions are: You macking on my brother? How long are you here? And you know just the general weird and wonderful world of Abigail." Well Kat cut the pleasantries and got straight to the point. Abigail takes a chocolate from a box I'd been left by a reviewer of sorts, and takes her time eating it; pointedly aggravating Kat who has never been the most patient.

"Well, Ethan is fine Katrina, I'm sure he'll be glad to hear that you're concerned about his welfare. And nope, we're not together unless you talk about professional relationships; I'm back until I find my next 'adventure' and I'll most likely be staying with you two for the duration of my visit. Now if that is all, I suggest you hurry up and get ready so we can go out and have a proper catch up."

As painfully blunt as always, but also expected. I can't help but be excited that Abigail is back; it's as though the whole gang is getting back together with the exception of Ethan who is in America working with the most renowned choreographers and Ollie who was admitted to the Alvin Ailey Dance Company. Kat on the other hand looks aghast at having to share our apartment with Abigail, the notorious snorer.

Eventually we simmer down into general chit chat; where people are nowadays what they're doing and which celebrities would look nice in Katrina's bed. A game she is always trying to get us to play; we fall into the pattern of being back at the Academy, Kat seeming to talk about everything but dance while Abigail dissects my performance piece by piece and gives me a whole list of critiques as well as a series of exercises to correct said critiques. I genuinely take note while Katrina goes between rolling her eyes and mumbling at her I-phone; because if there is one thing Abigail knows better than anything it is dance, and more specifically: How to critique a dancer.

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It is astounding how quickly you fall into old habits; the way me, Kat and Abigail fell into conversation as though we were only at the Academy yesterday, with me listening while Kat tells an outrageous story and Abigail quips in with some sarcastic remark which ends that particular topic of conversation. The only thing that has changed is that I'm not whinging about whichever boy, or man as it would be now, that is featured in my once tumultuous love life. I have decided now that dance is my one focus, the only boy I have contact with any more is Ben and that's because he is in the company; on his way to making principal too. Suddenly the door crashes open again, I really will have to invest in a lock of some sorts to prevent these invasions of my safe haven.

"Have no fear ladies, Benster the master of banter is finally here." Speak of the devil, as they say, and the devil shall appear. Not that Ben could ever pass as a devil with his sparkling green eyes and lazy smile; Abigail and I are in fits of laughter, Kat on the other hand is frowning at the boy's flamboyant entrance. I would roll my eyes; Kat and Ben are famous for their back and forth banter. And in my blonde best friend's case; being completely oblivious to the blatant mutual attraction.

"Oh I wouldn't have noticed you coming in if it wasn't for your overly inflated ego. Or the fact you seem allergic to any clothing that covers your torso." Abigail nods approvingly at Kat's barbs, but still spares an appreciative glance in the direction of Ben's toned body. I was desensitized to it after working with him for so long, but as he flexed his muscles even I had to bite my lip and stare at anything but his body.

We fell into casual conversation easily, with Kat taking the mick out of Ben "Yes, you played such an amazing townsfolk number four. Such emotion" while Ben would respond about Kat 'lowering herself' to work in commercial and contemporary choreography. This elicited a smack on the arm for the only male by Abigail. For the first time in months I was surrounded by friends and laughing rather than worrying about a dance rehearsal or some other facet of my life as a dancer in the company. Eventually we got down to planning what we're doing tonight to celebrate my success in the role of Giselle.

"Drinks, drinks and more drinks Tiara. I would say YOLO if it wouldn't come across as cliché, but we deserve a drink. Plus, watching you lot drunk is a lot more amusing than anything I'd find on the television" I know for a fact that I'm tomato red, I'm not famous for my alcohol tolerance; neither is Ben or Abigail for that matter. A little thing that has provided far too much entertainment for the warped mind of Katrina Karamakov.

"Are you going to try and take advantage of me again Kat? I've told you all you need to do is ask." We're all laughing, Kat looks murderous. Trust Ben to be the only one willing to go head to head with her with the witty come backs; I'd give him a standing ovation if I didn't want to lose my head thanks to Kat biting it off. Abigail has no such qualms about such things and gets up to clap Ben on the back. KNOCK.

"Who the hell is that? I was going to come back with something…" Katrina shuts up instantly. Gone is any faux anger she may have been holding onto, replaced by surprise. Even Abigail's indifferent mask falls from position while Ben gapes like a fish. I dread to think what expression could be found on my own face, although I know without a shadow of a doubt that it isn't attractive. If anything was an illusion tonight, this is it; for standing in the doorway to my dressing room, looking incredibly awkward while he holds a bouquet of red roses is none other than Christian Reed.

Silence, at times is louder than anything else. And this silence is speaking volumes, not even Ben or Kat have made a wise crack or cleared their throats to try and rid the room of this suffocating atmosphere; I don't know how long we're all there staring between one another and waiting for someone to make the first move as though we're playing some abstract version of chess.

"Ermmm.. Congratulations Tara, you too Ben. Abigail, Katrina" I don't know what shocks me more, a shock I see mirrored on everyone's face apart from Abigail who is staring pointedly at Christian with enough focus that he may as well spontaneously combust; first, it was Christian who broke the silence and secondly he seemed nervous. Strong, silent, enigmatic Christian radiated awkwardness as he stood in the doorway; hesitating as if he didn't know if he was allowed in.

"Well Christian, what a pleasure to see you" Kat fires up instantly, as if him actually speaking had awoken her from some form of petrification; she genuinely stands up and Christian flinches as though he expects her to charge at him. Going on the acidic sarcasm dripping from her words, it wouldn't alarm me in the least. Ben isn't even looking at Kat, but looking between Christian and myself as if he is watching an intense tennis volley; I can practically smell this whole situation about to deteriorate and there is nothing I can do about it.

Abigail on the other hand doesn't hesitate in acting, she rambles some excuse about being late for drinks and starts getting hers and Kat's things together; she tries to drag Kat from the room but she looks at me. After all these years I can read Kat's face like a book, right now it reads: 'Be careful, and don't think you can get away with not telling me what happens'. Christian moves from the doorway to let Abigail past who gives him a small smile, Kat on the other hand grimaces as though he is carrying some hideous disease. But when he looks away, I see her features soften; she isn't mad at Christian, she's mad at what he did to us all by disappearing.

Ben on the other hand is standing there diligently, and my heart warms knowing that Ben is on my side: Staring down at Christian with a silent threat of 'you hurt her, I hurt you'. But that doesn't help in trying to pop this awkward bubble. Kat however realises as she storms into the room and grabs the lanky man by his arm and genuinely smiles.

"Come on Ben, I'll even let you buy me a drink. And walk me home if you manage to behave." Ben looks surprised and however appealing the idea may have been, he doesn't have a choice in the matter as she drags him from the room while Abigail waits outside. As the door slams I get one final glimpse of my three friends faces. Ben is looking as though he wants to be there for moral support; Kat is looking torn up by the whole situation whereas Abigail's eyes scream 'sort it out'. But the thing is, I don't know if there is anything to sort out.

Once again a symphony of silence is playing in my dressing room as Christian walks over to hand me the bouquet of red roses; I can't help but smile and whisper an almost silent 'thank you'. The gesture however unexpected is sweet, even more so coming from someone as aloof as Christian; if he is even aloof anymore, for all I know he could be married, have children or work as an architect in Paris.

Now that the room is empty apart from us, Christian seems to gain confidence and he fixes me with that brooding gaze. The brooding gaze which still makes my heart skip a beat, however much it irks me. A gaze that is full of expectation, the expectation for me to spill my guts. But the thing is, he knows exactly where I've been for the last two years. He is the one who disappeared without warning, and call me crazy if you must, but in my eyes it is he who has the explaining to do. I ignore the flutter in my heart as I look into his brown eyes, squaring my shoulder and trying to keep my voice from shaking.

"So, been busy?"

* * *

**I had every intention of including some OC's in this chapter. Genuinely, in my plan it would have covered some people getting letters etc. **

**But I just wanted to look at Tara et al and see how they were and this is what happened. Next chapter will have the aftermath of this and DEFINITELY include some OC's.**

**I still need some OC's so leave a review or drop a PM.**

**Let me know your thoughts on this chapter, I hope it wasn't too tedious… It just literally wrote itself.**

**-Evie xx**


	4. Awkward Moments and Mother Problems

**After the previous gargantuan chapter, but here is what I hope will be a bit of relief. Hopefully it is faster paced and I have decided that I am not deviating from my plans for this chapter. Anything that pops into my head is going to have to wait… If I stick to my plans, hopefully I won't ramble on as I did previously.**

* * *

**Katrina Karamakov.**

Okay, it may have been a tad weird seeing Christian again but I'm pretty sure that it's nowhere near as weird as what's happening now. Thank God, Buddha and whichever other deities are hanging around up there because if anyone walked through the corridor right about now there would be some awkward questions.

"Why did you drag me out of there? Tara needs us" If I keep rolling my eyes I will give myself repetitive eye strain or something; I always knew that he was missing a fuse or something. If he managed to shut up for two minutes, I could hear what they're saying the other side of the door. But no, he is whinging incessantly and therefore sabotaging my 'listening into a private conversation' plan; ever since he gave himself his own nickname, I just knew he'd be the bane of my life. Deep calming breathes Kat, violence is not the answer; thankfully, Abigail saves the day. Never thought I'd be seeing that.

"Shhh, if you two managed to shut up. We could probably hear something, now is there anywhere we can go to listen without looking like peeping Tom's because being arrested might work for you two but I'm not into that." I can't help but scoff at Ben's face, concentrating so hard it looks as though he's constipated. Now come on Kat, you were practically raised in this place: Are there any air vents above this dressing room?

"Yup, there's a small corridor that goes around the back of all the dressing rooms; backstage use it for this and that." I would be shocked at Ben's logic if I weren't so peeved that he'd dashed my elaborate plan of climbing through the ventilation system while the theme of Mission Impossible plays in my head. Of all the times to use his brain, he uses it to ruin my creative genius.

"Really? I can't be bothered with this anymore. You all know Tara, as soon as he's gone we'll be forced to endure some pointless rant about internal GPS and fantasies coming to life; I'm going to spare myself the cavity of listening into this particular conversation which will be some sickly sweet excerpt from a low budget romance film. I'm going for a drink, meet me at Loft Lounge." Of course it would be Abigail who tries to poop this party; strangely me and Ben both object.

Quietly of course, we wouldn't want anyone to know we were trying to listen into their conversation; seriously though, we all deserve answers from Christian and I'm pretty sure it is written somewhere in the Girl Code that best friends should listen in on conversations with potential psycho murderers. I know I have no proof that Christian is a nut job, but since he pulled his vanishing act I have no proof to contradict this theory. This is me being the best friend, ready to intercede at a moment's notice; call it being nosily responsible.

Abigail however decides to ignore out arguments and walks away muttering something about being 'juvenile'; humph, I am 20 years of age. That's hardly juvenile; Ben grabs my hand and starts dragging me towards a store cupboard. Shit, I go to shout out but he covers my mouth; Lord above, Christian isn't the murderer it's Ben.

"Stop struggling Kat, the bloody cupboard leads to the corridor. If I was going to do anything it would involve dinner and charm." Charm? Yeah right, but it is easier to breathe now that I know I'm not about to end up as chopped liver or anything. Plus, I would've seen the warning signs; but really? A store cupboard, judging by the Cheshire grin he's wearing Ben might be living in one of Tara's famous 'fantasy moments'; knowing that I could be the subject of said of fantasy makes me shiver. It's gross, or at least I want it to be.

"Ok then but you better not get any ideas, remember we're not stopping to play seven minutes in heaven or two minutes in bloody Taiwan; we're being responsible friends who may or may not be infringing on our friend's privacy." Keeping it real and setting the record straight, but Ben doesn't seem to heed my warning; ensuring we're pressed uncomfortably close as we squeeze through the narrow passage. How uncomfortably close? Close enough that I can feel every muscle of Ben's ripple against my back, and well other appendages of his are pressed against me in a way which screams 'AWKWARD'.

"I already had the ideas, but don't worry Kitty Kat; I am a real gentleman and if I can say this without sounding arrogant: I'm going to need a lot more than seven minutes when we're in heaven." Okay then, for some unfathomable reason my mind goes blank and my breathe catches in my throat; effectively killing the witty come back poised on my lips. Why do I have the sudden urge to pin the annoying prat to the wall and pash on him like nobody's business? Shit, I must've inhaled some experimental gas that makes my hormones go wild. Ben Tickle is a pompous, presumptuous prat. Yep, that's more like it; see, psychology is my true calling. People pay through the roof for this kind of thing.

To try and save face, and knock Ben off his pedestal: Which is practically my full time job. I send a quick elbow to his gut and grin when I hear his groan of pain; violence may not be the answer but it is preferable to looking like a complete idiot who can't think of anything to say to one of 'The Benster's' many sexual innuendos. Thankfully, my act of aggressive negotiation shuts him up and we can get back to the job at hand.

Eventually we manage to squeeze through the corridor: Genuinely think they employ matchstick people to walk through here, anyone with hips would have to use a lot of Vaseline to squeeze through the narrow space. Cue more close proximity to Ben and all his muscular glory, but as long as he's quiet for once; I suppose I can tolerate it. For this one time, and one time only. As we walk through the corridor, we hear some pretty strange noises coming from the dressing rooms: Let me say there was a lot of groaning, a particular type of groaning if you get my drift, coming from an all-male dressing room and I'm 97.8% sure there wasn't a woman there.

Finally we end up at Tara's door; thankfully we can hear a tad more than when we were loitering in the main corridor. But still it's mainly catching random words, and I'm surprised to hear that Christian is the one speaking and even more so that Tara isn't butting in; if it were in Tara's shoes I'd be ripping into him like a bag of chips. "…job, but there was nothing…changed now, different…permanent…Sydney. Teaching it's something…" Okay then, the sound quality may be better but I'm still as clueless as to what's going on than Ben in a geometry lesson.

"Jaffa cake's sake, I can't hear anything." Obviously I'm still whispering, but Ben flinches as I slam back into him; to physically emphasize my frustration since I can't scream or anything. Ben then has the genius idea of trying to squeeze around me, not the most pragmatic thing. It was a tight fit when we were back to back, well my back to his front; now we're practically being crushed together in places that we should never be crushed together. We're so close I'm practically inhaling the beads of sweat on Ben's bare chest, so trying to preserve my dignity and to prevent my hormones forcing me to do anything that my brain won't allow; I try to push away. Not my smartest move, not at all.

Next thing I hear is a massive bang; you'd of thought that the Sydney Opera House would have stronger locks, but no. Next thing I know I'm looking up at Tara and Christian who look shocked as Hell to see two people apparently falling into the room through a wall. Okay then, it seems I am a magnet for immense awkwardness; it only gets worse when I look down to see I'm face to face with Ben in what people could consider a 'compromising' position. Oh ground, please swallow me now.

Tara is probing me with her eyes, don't make eye contact Kat. I push myself up and try to think of an excuse, but the embarrassment practically kills me brain cells so I settle for smiling like a moron and nodding my head. Don't ask why, because I don't know anything apart from the fact I look like the world's biggest idiot; no wonder Abigail expresses genuine concern that my idiocy may be contagious.

"Umm… we'd forgotten my flowers." Ben bursts in with exaggerated hand motions; his lie as transparent as anything but right now I don't care. I just nod along, with that stupid smile on my face before Ben drags me from the room; well more like picks me up bridal style and sprints like a bat out of Hell. Once we're a considerable distance away Ben lowers me to the ground, I'm shocked since I expected him to drop me like a sack of potatoes.

"For that debacle Kitty Kat, we deserve a drink" He grins down at me and I can't help but smile back. Debacle, that is definitely the right word; but thankfully we've escaped, even though Tara is going to give me a right ear bashing when she sees me next. Yup, that drink Ben proposed is sounding a lot more attractive than Tiara's wrath right about now. I throw my arm around his waist.

"Oh Benji boy, such a gentleman. Thanks for offering to buy, but you seemed to have forgotten those flowers again."

* * *

**Victoire Garrington.**

Would you like to know what makes me angry? No, livid in fact? That moment in a dream when you're about to get to the good part: Kissing an Adonis or punching that annoying girl who told the whole school that you're riddled with venereal diseases. The pinnacle of the dream and then BAM you're awoken by a screaming Banshee; this particular species of Banshee is mother dearest, although waking me from my much needed sleep means that right about now she isn't anywhere near 'dear' to me at all.

I roll over in bed, sighing at the soft caress of my satin sheets against my bare legs and glance at my alarm clock. 6.38 am, any happiness at the satin sheets disappears; what sane person makes such a racket at this time of a morning. Scratch that, what person in their right mind would be awake at this time on a damn Sunday: Further proof that my devilish mother requires sectioning under mental health or something. Why does she insist on torturing me? I sit up in bed and try to engage my brain to calculate the chances of her shutting up.

"Victoire Darling" And there's the answer to that equation. Her piercing shriek literally makes me flinch, I would cover my ears but it's futile: Either way it would feel as though my ears are bleeding. So, I may as well face the music; I drag myself from my bed, reluctantly. Literally, I swear my mother is some jealous whore who is jealous of my loving relationship with my bed.

"Vicky—" "I'M COMING!" I scream, and then silence reigns. Beautiful silence, without my mother's endless harping on about this and that; I stare longingly at my bed. I'm really not a morning person, but I know from experience that getting back into bed would result in nothing more than my harpy of a mother coming upstairs to harass me further. I drag myself downstairs, ensuring to stomp my feet and let everyone in a five mile radius know that I'm beyond pissed off right about now.

I literally vomit in my mouth as I get to the foot of the stairs: There it is in its full glory, the pod family. Father is wearing a stuffy suit which is stretched over his ever-growing belly and reading the newspaper with such fervour that he may give himself an aneurysm, same as always; and there's Daniel, my brother pouring over some essay or other for his Law degree. The only relationship my socially awkward brother has ever had is with a book, it's unsettling. But it's not that which makes my blood cold, sitting there with her platinum blonde hair perfectly coiffed and wearing a pink fur cardigan which could only be described as a crime against fashion is my mother.

My nemesis, sitting there wearing a wide smile that displays her porcelain veneers to disturbing effect. All I know is that anything that makes her this happy, is something which would make me want to take a very long run off of a very short pier; I literally feel my stomach twist itself into knots that contortionists could only ever hope of replicating when I see the envelope in front of her. A pale yellow envelope with my name written in neat cursive, with the insignia of the National Academy of Dance embossed on the right-hand corner. An envelope which has been opened.

"Mother, you do realise that opening someone else's mail is a criminal offense. Ask Daniel." At the sound of his name my bookwork brother looks up from his enormous text book, nods his head and then gives me a death glare. Some people are so uptight; whereas my mother seems to have ignored everything I've said while she sits there practically humming in exuberance, clapping her hands together like a kid at Christmas.

"Oh Darling, wonderful news. You've gotten into the final audition week. Isn't that fabulous? One step closer to your dream. I'm so proud." Under normal circumstances, I'm guessing I should respond with an equal amount of enthusiasm; but I just can't. It was inevitable, but I knew that I'd be accepted even if I was hoping with all my heart that I'd be rejected.

I'm blessed with 'an extraordinary natural talent' and I know this is true, even if I hadn't had around 400 teachers throughout my life. Dancing is easy for me, and now I'm doomed because it's inevitable that I'm going to be accepted into the Dance Academy. I wish that lightening would strike me now, but I'm not that lucky; I was given talent and then given the anti-Christ mother and the pod family who are constantly in pursuit of perfection. So don't mind me for being less than impressed with the 'big, big news'.

"Yay, but I really don't care since I could still be sleeping right about now." My mother's excited expression drops for a millisecond at my uncensored sarcasm, her eyes narrowing and her lips pursed; it might be petty, but I can't help but let a smirk take residence on my face. Whenever the 'Perfect Façade' slips, I can't help but feel a rush of satisfaction; knowing that she isn't as perfect as she pretends to be.

"Tut, tut. You should be grateful for this opportunity. So many girls would give their left foot to have this chance." I am going to overlook the blatantly patronizing tone of voice she uses; no mother dearest, that would be you. You'd chop off someone's foot to ensure I got into that Academy. Once upon a time, I was that girl who wanted nothing more than to be the greatest dancer of my generation; but after being dragged all around the country to dance competitions and becoming an object in which my mother can use to vicariously live through me. Let's just say my passion for dance evaporated like a puddle in the desert.

I would look to my father for help in telling my mother that I am not going to the Academy, but that would be entirely useless. First of all, father is clueless about anything other than economics or whatever it is he spends hours poring over on a daily basis; secondly, the man is petrified of my mother. He would never question her authority; mother definitely wears the trousers in that relationship; as well as the skirt, the diamond choker and the Jimmy Choo bag.

"I'm going to say this only once, so I suggest you listen. I'm not going; my place should go to someone who actually wants it." I can't be bothered to shout, shouting at my mother is as helpful as shouting at a wall; but I can tell that for once in her God forsaken life has processed what I've said. She gradually changes colour, a raspberry blush becomes a tomato mask and when I laugh at her absurd expression, she turns the most magnificent shade of puce that it wouldn't alarm me if she popped like a balloon.

"You deserve this Victoire Genevieve Garrington, you have worked hard for this; Your father and I have worked hard for this, to give you these opportunities. You are beautiful and you are talented. And I will be damned if you squander this because of your teenage angst." I would roll my eyes, this is the same speech I've heard the million times I've tried to breach the subject of 'I don't want to dance' and since she used the full name I know that now is not the time to push it. But, I may be blonde but I am not dumb and I won't be won over by mindless compliments which are meant to preen my ego.

"You can't make me mother, I could botch the audition." A smug look is plastered on my face, my mother shoots me a cold glare; she knows that there's no way she can stop me doing this. Victoire 1, mother 0. I always knew I picked up my affinity for 'playground politics' somewhere, and mother it seems that the student is now the master. But my inner conga doesn't last long as mother leans forward in her chair, the sickly sweet smile I despise fixed back in place.

"Both you and I know Victoire, that you could get into that school without breaking a sweat. So if you somehow don't get into that school, there will be nothing stopping me thinking that you've purposely sabotaged your own potential success; and I'm sure everyone agrees with me that it would be unacceptable. And there would be repercussions." I almost fall over, what? Mother has always been someone who favoured sly jibes and veiled threats, to be so blunt must mean that she is 100% serious.

"Are you genuinely threatening me?" I look around to my father and brother to see that they're both completely ignoring the verbal joust going on right before their eyes; too consumed with their 'papers'. I pretty much only love my mother on a biological basis, everything she does rubs me up the wrong way; but she's never threatened me and by the steely glint in her eyes I don't doubt that these aren't empty threats.

"Of course not, all I meant was while achievement results in awards; failure leads to deprivation. Such as goodbye credit card and hello long term grounding." Speechless, this is not serious. The woman is the devil incarnate, I've always suspected it but this is definitive proof; I'm just waiting for her to sprout horns and pull a pitchfork from under the table.

"You wouldn't dare" I almost slap myself, sounding more hysterical than fierce as I intended. My mother's smile widens as she tells that she's winning this metaphorical tug of war, I cross my arms like a petulant child; a pretty pathetic move I admit, but all I want to do is scream and shout and throw a glass of water over my mother to see if she melts like the Wicked Witch.

"Oh I do dare Victoire…" She doesn't get to finish her sentence since I start screaming and storm from the room. Cliché teenager behaviour, yes; justified? Hell yes.

* * *

I don't know how long I'm slamming things around upstairs, but I definitely determine that punching things is the best stress relief; even if it is only pillows. I stomp to the mirror, dragging my feet purposefully; not wanting to move with my ordinary grace in some form of redundant protest. I despise what looks back at me, because the thing is I actually look like a ballerina.

With my waist length hair a blonde so pale it seems silver, and willowy figure with long, lean legs; I look like the poster girl for ballet. My aristocratic beauty just enhances this image, my big blue eyes and porcelain skin; every angle of my face is curved to perfection, the straight nose and the high cheekbones which are as sharp as glass. Every aspect of my body seems custom built for ballet; my small chest, my feet and my impressive turnout.

I storm to my wardrobe and pull out a black bodycon skirt and a black lace vest, once I've pulled them on. I smile, adding the black studded earrings, the thick black eyeliner and scarlet lips; I look more like a prostitute than a ballerina but for now that's fine. I slump on my bed, made up with nowhere to go but celebrating at my 'mini-rebellion'; it sounds so superficial but I can't lose my credit card, it is literally pivotal to my escape from my mother's oppression. And my mother is more than demented enough to take it away.

The worst thing is that she is right. I know in my heart and soul that I can, and will, get into that school. But I can't fight the feeling that I'm leaving one prison to go to another; constantly trapped in my mother's twisted desire to have a 'dancing daughter', an ambassador for my mother's success. This whole scenario would be much more joyous if I still loved to dance, if I was still able to lose myself in music for hours but nowadays dance isn't something I love. Dance is a chore, nothing more than a tedious chore that I do to keep my mother off of my back and now I am probably stuck doing it for another three years: Like a bird trapped in a cage.

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**Okay, here is another chapter. Victoire: What do we think? Thanks to The Perfumed Thorn for creating such an interesting character, who is lovely to write. Next chapter is solely from the perspective of future students and OC's.**

**Leave a review :)**

**Thanks again**

**-Evie**


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